The Morning After Midnight
by Abrae
Summary: Love - Death - Rebirth through the eyes of a friend. AU post season 7. Frohike POV.


Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big  
>assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit.<p>

Falstaff - Henry IV Part II

* * *

><p>He owns exactly one suit, and, as he wriggles into it one misty midsummer morning, he squelches memories of the last time he wore it.<p>

That day, the bride wore black; this morning she's nothing short of radiant. It may be bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, but there's nothing in the rules about a peek - and perhaps a peck on the cheek for luck - from the father of the groom.

Frohike knots his tie. He's never had a son, but today he feels a little like a father.

Mulder's had more fathers than he knows what to do with, but Frohike figures he's probably the best of the bunch. By all accounts, Bill Mulder was a cold man; not unloving, exactly, but distant - withdrawn. He held his son's love for him hostage, demanding things of him no son could ever hope to fulfill. Even after all these years, this emotional bribery makes itself felt in Mulder's sometimes-paralyzing guilt over his failure to live up to his father's expectations.

Bill Mulder wanted an avenger; all he got was a man.

Frohike utters a soft 'tsk'.

Thing is, Bill wasn't even the worst. If the rumors are true, Mulder's other father bequeathed an even heavier burden to his reluctant son. The Smoking Man planned for _his_ son to be a god - the father of a new race, the savior of humanity.

Now there's a guilt trip for you.

Mulder may well be a great man - _important_ in the grand scheme of things - but at what price? Frohike's seen, too often, the number this burden has done on Mulder's mind - the way he's abandoned common sense and simple pleasures for that bigger thing, his tyrannical birthright.

He shakes his head slightly as he recalls charged confrontations between Mulder and Scully, the one person who holds the real key to Mulder's happiness. Frohike's half in love with the way she unconsciously chipped away at Mulder's armor - the way they slowly became the world to one another. And yet, time and time again, they squared off right before his eyes, always over something that cigarette-smoking asshole had his hand in.

Frohike loathed these moments, feeling, rather than knowing, that for Mulder and Scully to be at odds was somehow an affront to the way things were _supposed_ to be. He hated the seething set of Mulder's anger. He hated Scully's bitter frustration. Those standoffs were wrong somehow, and, more than once, he's cursed the bastard who pushed them to that point - as if he'd brought them together for the sole purpose of watching them rip each other apart.

He winces slightly at the pinch of stiff leather shoes as they slide over feet that seldom see anything but sneakers. It occurs to him that he asks neither perfection nor greatness from Mulder, and that maybe this is what makes him different from those other fathers - what sets him apart and yet allows him a place among their ranks.

He'd rather die than admit it in so many words, but he has his own hopes for the guy. Not because he's got his own agenda - he isn't looking for someone to make him feel better about himself - but simply because he loves Mulder. He loves the fact that this great, glorious man chooses to spend his time in the company of misfits and geeks. He loves that Mulder sees past pretensions and masks. He sees people for who they are, he always takes up for the underdog. Mulder's a prince, and he loves the big lug. And his wish is that his friend, an almost-son, will accept the happiness offered him; that he may learn to live in the promise of his better self.

He stands in front of a full-length mirror and eyes himself warily. Something in his reflection evokes unwelcome memories, and he soon finds himself fighting stinging tears.

* * *

><p>They hear about Mulder through the friend of a friend of Langly's, and the news stuns Frohike. He grunts when spoken to, lending his ambiguous assent to their funeral plans, but otherwise he has nothing to say; he has no words in the wake of Mulder's death. Days pass, and he continues with his projects, passing soundless hours in the unhealthy glare of a computer screen - not looking away, not eating, not sleeping, not talking at all. Langly takes his cues from a cautious Byers and the two give their friend a wide berth, hoping this strange quietude will pass.<p>

The morning of the funeral, Frohike pulls his one suit from a moth-infested closet and holds it up for inspection. No holes, but a kind of clammy chill seems fused to its threads. All he sees is Mulder's lifeless body dressed in its own suit, awaiting burial. He pulls the sleeves of his jacket over a thin dress shirt and feels nothing but the cold embrace of frozen earth. It hangs heavily on his shoulders, weighing him down, and he's powerless to dig his way back to the world of the living. No tears; he simply stares at his stark, grieved reflection in the mirror.

A few hours later, he finds himself reflected once again in the face of Dana Scully. Some might call her tight expression impenetrable, but Frohike understands it perfectly. Everything - from her bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes to the calculated set of her features - bespeaks a silent desperation that he shares, and he's suddenly struck by the irrefutable finality of it all.

Frohike glances at the others congregated by Mulder's grave, searching for signs that they are not alone in their grief; but he and Scully - and Skinner, perhaps - _are_ alone, in a way. More than mere friends, they're all that's left of the family Mulder chose. There are no words for what they were to Mulder, or what he was to them - hackneyed labels like "son," "lover," and "husband" don't apply to them - and so they bury their love for him in shrouds of silence and secretly weep for their loss.

* * *

><p>He doesn't expect to find anyone at Mulder's apartment; neither is he surprised to discover Scully there, surrounded by precarious piles of Mulder's things. She looks up as Frohike softly closes the door, accepting his sudden presence as somehow natural. Her lost, hungry look pierces his heart. He knows that he returns it with equally forsaken eyes.<p>

He perches on the old leather sofa and hesitantly reaches out a warm, plump hand. Scully wordlessly takes it between her own cold palms and they sit like this for a moment. When she speaks, it's not to ask why he's come; she knows.

"I've been looking through his papers - what the investigators didn't take away. Just some old letters, bills..." She laughs wryly and hands Frohike a yellowed piece of paper with the words "XXXtasy Hotline" printed at the top.

"Found this...at least there don't seem to be any more recent ones."

Frohike's face breaks into what might be considered a smile - his first since Mulder's death. "Maybe it's from a case?"

Now it's Scully's turn to grin - a captivating thing he hasn't seen in months.

"Fat chance. I don't remember any X-file involving more than one 'X'...it's just Mulder getting his ya-ya's out.

"He does that."

They grin at one another until they both realize they've been speaking in the present tense, and their smiles fade as the dull ache returns.

Frohike watches as Scully aimlessly sifts through more papers.

"There's a picture..." he begins, his words weakening along with his resolve. Scully looks up at him expectantly.

"Of Mulder?" she asks, and he shakes his head.

"Of...you."

Scully's eyes widen slightly and her mouth forms a small 'o'. Frohike scrambles to explain, "No - it's not like that. There's...he had a picture of you...it's kind of a long story."

Her laugh is bitter. "I've got all the time in the world."

He takes a deep breath and looks away, his eyes resting on the faint outline of old tape on Mulder's window.

"A few years ago - I don't remember when. Two years? Maybe more. He had this picture...he kept it in his wallet - just a little snapshot of you. I don't know where he got it, because it wasn't recent. It was a school picture - maybe fifth or sixth grade."

A perplexed frown wrinkles across Scully's forehead; clearly, this is news to her, and Frohike's not entirely sure he should continue. But he does - she needs to know.

"The first time I saw it..." he blushes slightly, "I kept asking him for it. I was joking - he knew I was kidding, but it was a great picture..."

Frohike smiles slightly, his eyes crinkling behind too-thick glasses. "You were a beautiful kid, Scully."

Now it's her turn to blush, but her eyes beg him to continue.

"So, I guess maybe a year ago - sometime not too long before - we're sitting around eating pizza. Byers is gone for the night, and Langly's disappeared - I think he was playing some game. Maybe that's why Mulder was over. Anyway, it's just him and me, and he's got his wallet out - he wanted to pay for part of the pizza."

He takes a deep, shaky breath and continues.

"He kinda had to dig for the cash, and the picture fell out - it fell onto the floor. I remember...he leaned over to pick it up, and then sat up, holding it and looking at it with this...weird look on his face."

Seeing the sudden nervousness in Scully's eyes, Frohike quickly continues, "No - it was a good weird look. Like...I can't describe it well, but he was kinda smiling, with his whole face. He just kept looking at that picture of you, like it was the best thing he'd ever seen. When it fell out, I was going to ask him for it again, but when I saw the look on his face..."

His words fade as he remembers, a thoughtful expression settling over his own features.

"He was in love, Scully. It was like everything that was good in him was on his face when he looked at your picture. I'll never forget the way he looked. That was the first time I ever saw him look like that - about anybody. Like he was happy and satisfied - it sounds stupid, but he looked - you know - fulfilled."

He lifts his eyes to hers, and finds much the same look; tempered by her sorrow, but somehow complete. He squeezes her hand gently and repeats, "He loved you."

She nods briskly, intuitively placing a protective hand over her still-slender stomach.

"I just...I was hoping the picture might be here," he says hesitantly. "I guess it's gone. I was hoping I could, you know, keep it - just as a reminder of that night, when I saw that look on his face. You...you brought out the best in him, Scully - he was a better person because of you."

Scully shakes her head, slow tears now snaking down her pale cheeks.

"That's..." Frohike cannot speak, and several moments pass before he can continue. When he does, his voice is broken, high and small. "That's how I want to remember him."

They cry together, their soft sobs echoing in the empty apartment.

* * *

><p>A knock on the door rouses Frohike from his reverie, and he quickly brushes the pooling tears from his eyes. The door opens and a boyishly tousled head peeks around the corner.<p>

"Frohike, aren't you ready yet? What the hell are you doing in here? No, wait - I don't think I want to know."

Frohike scowls at Mulder's reflection in the mirror.

"Fuck off, Mulder. No - get in here - I have something for you."

An exaggeratedly alarmed look crossing his playful features, Mulder slips into the small anteroom and stands towering over his diminutive friend. Frohike reaches into the breast pocket of his suit and pulls out a small photograph. He turns and looks up at Mulder, holding it out.

Mulder's mouth falls open slightly, his eyes betraying genuine surprise. "Where...?"

"Scully gave it to me," Frohike mumbles, studiously keeping his eyes on the worn carpet at his feet. Mulder has to lean close to hear his words. "I, um, told her - you know - about your picture. She gave this to me awhile back - it's a little different. When - I figured you didn't have your picture anymore. So here you go."

Mulder stares at the photograph for a moment, shaking his head in wonder. Frohike sneaks a look up at his face, and the ache that has lingered in his heart for so long fades at the quiet joy he finds there.

"Mulder," he begins. He wants to tell him what he means to all of them. He wants to tell Mulder that nothing is more important than this passion he has for his wife-to-be; that glory, success, and riches all pale in comparison to this seemingly simple miracle he's been given. He wants Mulder to know that he's the son Frohike never had, and that he loves him.

"Be happy," he says, and Mulder nods slowly.

"I am."

* * *

><p>He has his own picture now. Years have passed since that day, yet Frohike still keeps the faded snapshot carefully folded in his wallet.<p>

A tall man holding a plump, sunny-faced baby looks down on a beautiful woman in white, and the two share a secret smile. They are encircled by a slightly giddy woman and two older men standing guard on the edges. One looks as though he could fight off a small army, and the other like he couldn't hurt a fly; yet, the bespectacled eyes of both are vigilant against even the hint of harm to this impromptu family.

Frohike's amazed sometimes. The fate of the world is caught in this little photograph, but you'd never know to look at it; nor - and this is what he finds so astonishing - would you know to see these people today. Scully has learned to smile, and Mulder has learned to be loved. For the sake of that little boy, perhaps, they've allowed themselves to be content in one another, in their family, and, especially, in their son.

The baby is now a healthy, affectionate 10 year old. If his parents are important to the future, he _is_ the future, yet, instead of being weighed down by a burden that can only intensify as the years go by, he plays. Whatever Mulder and Scully's secret fears for their son may be, they've devoted their energies to ensuring his happiness; his birthright can wait. Will seems to understand that he's different somehow, but he's been taught to take it in stride - as much as he can, anyway.

Frohike's found his own best teacher in that kid. He seems to live by an unspoken axiom of existing in the moment, of finding joy where he can, of making those around him laugh a little louder - a little more often.

Frohike sometimes finds himself staring at that photograph. Something in him rejoices at the faces there - altered only in their greater peacefulness - and he doesn't need a mirror to know that his own features echo that remembered look of Mulder's, reflecting one man's comfort in small happinesses and simple pleasures.


End file.
